The Scent Of Your Skin
by Quill Angel
Summary: "You're drunk," John insists. Sherlock gives a light, mirthless laugh. "Why? Because you can smell it on my breath? Do you know what you smell like, John?" He is standing too close, far too close, closer than they've ever stood. He bends down so his breath tickles John's ear. "Another woman's perfume." In hindsight, Sherlock thinks, the alcohol was a bad idea.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Since I don't have time to update Sonnet or SO, I wrote a one shot. Bit different than my others. Might add one or two more chapters. Depends on reviews. So please tell me what you think! Reviews are love.**

**Sorry for typos, if any.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own the show, don't own the characters.**

**Do own this fanfic though, and I have full rights to make them do filthy things to each other here, even if they won't do it on the show. Enjoy!**

**oOoOo**

After all his time at 221B, John thinks that there's nothing else that Sherlock can do that will surprise him.

He's wrong.

It's very rare- well, almost never, actually- that John brings a girl to Baker Street. They're put off by the assorted body parts in the fridge, the mould growing a colony on the dining table, and the skull- well, the skull just upsets them. John can relate. He's had a while to get used to it, and well, this was what he _liked_.

He also liked dark haired detectives with eyes that were impossible colours and who drove him absolutely mad with longing. But that's all it was. _Longing_. Because it was never going to happen, that disastrous dinner at Angelo's had made sure of that.

So John thought: why not? Anna was a nice girl, pretty and fun and she didn't want to pick up the skull and throw it out of the window. She made a face at the sight of the kitchen, and John felt himself bristle a bit because that was _their _kitchen, and that's just how it was, Sherlock _liked _it that way, but then he told himself to stop, because no matter what, he wouldn't have _him, _so he might as well nod and agree with Anna that the dining table is not the place for a jar of eyeballs.

He's sitting in his armchair by the fair with his feet up, after Anna is gone. The sex was good, even though John might have actively been wishing for shaggy curls to tug on while they were fucking, and not sleek blonde. But she's gone now, and it's over, and he might as well feel a bit smug about it, because Captain John Watson is back in the game.

"_Shit!" _the muffled voice comes from outside, and John feels every hair on the back of his neck stand to attention at the velvet tones. He's finally back from whatever god-forsaken murder-related adventure he's had, and even though John has had a mildly enjoyable evening, he still feels himself sag with relief because he's _home._

And then he realises: did Sherlock just _swear_?

"_Fuck—" _there it is again.

Bloody hell. Is he hurt? He must be hurt. John gets up so fast he feels his knees make protesting creaks (No, it's not because he's getting _old_, though Sherlock would probably think otherwise) and he runs towards the door, throwing it open, and beholding Sherlock leaning against the railing, long fingered hands curled tightly against it, the wood supporting his whole body weight.

Then the smell hits him.

"John," Sherlock slurs. "Hello," then he looks up from beneath his long lashes, eyes dark and silver and _impossible_, and his pale pink lips twitch. "Had an enjoyable evening?"

"Are you _drunk_?" John asks, torn between annoyed and amused and utterly turned on by how dishevelled Sherlock looks.

"No," comes the short reply, and Sherlock comes up the remainder of the stairs, bodily shoving John and stalking into the room. His body sways but once, and then he's ramrod- straight again, and finding a convenient bit of wall, he leans against it.

John comes in after that, shutting the door, ready to ask him _the fuck is going on_, when Sherlock discreetly sniffs the air.

"_Chanel 5," _he slurs. "Very distinctive. Expensive. I'd say it wasn't someone from work, but you hardly have the time to meet someone _out _of work. So not a GP then, a surgeon? Mmm, John, never pegged you as someone who'd have a _rank kink." _His head is tilted back against the wall, and his fingers reach up to tug at the scarf around his neck and drop it to the floor. The pale column of his throat is exposed now, slightly obscured by the lapels of his coat.

John's mouth drop open, and there's a stirring in his trousers at the way Sherlock's voice goes impossibly deep at the words _rank kink. _John didn't know Sherlock actually knew the word _kink_.

"W-w-what—" then he stops. "Okay, I'm asking the questions here." Then he goes to stand in front of Sherlock, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest. "Why are you drunk? I've never seen you consume alcohol. Tell me it's for a case, go on."

Sherlock's head drops, eyes meeting John's, and John feels his mouth go dry. The eyes are dark, impossibly so, and Sherlock shoots him a slow, lazy smile, eyes flicking down the length of the body before coming back up to meet his. This is not Sherlock. This is _definitely _not Sherlock. This is...oh god. John stands his ground, Captain Watson mode on, the kind of bearing he used to intimidate and _command_.

Sherlock tilts his head to once side, curls falling over his eyes. His lips curve up in a slightly amused smile, one elegant eyebrow raised. "Is that an _order, _Captain Watson?" he drawls, and John's brain short-circuits. "You assume I'm drunk. Let's say I'm slightly inebriated. Yes, it was for a case. I can hold my liquor, I assure you, John. I have a question myself," one slender, elegant finger reaches up to stroke across his bottom lip. "Why did you bring her here?"

"You're _drunk."_John insists.

Sherlock gives a light, mirthless laugh, peeling himself away from the wall. "Why?" he asks. "Because you can smell it on me?" he walks closer to John, and John finds that he cannot move, pinned there by the molten steel in Sherlock's gaze. "Do you know what _you _smell like, John?" he asks again, standing too close, far too close, closer than they've ever stood. He bends down so his breath tickles John's ear. "Another woman's perfume."

John feels his blood rush southward, feels his breath leave his body, and sweat pool at the bottom of his spine. Everything is moving slow, too slow, too sluggish, and he feels a light whisper of Sherlock's lips against his ear, but that he could have just imagined, because Sherlock pulls away from him now, leaving his side. The sudden absence of the stifling proximity that existed seconds ago leaves him cold.

"I see you shagged her, then," Sherlock says lightly, moving towards the kitchen, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. John turns around, eyes narrowed, and follows him there.

"Alright, let's hear it then. How do you know?"

Sherlock leans against the kitchen table, one hip cocked against the rim, glass of water in his hands. "Indulged in quite a bit of foreplay too," he continues, ignoring him and taking a sip.

"I didn't know you knew what that meant," John jokes, trying desperately to clear the air of the thickening sexual tension. Well, one sided sexual tension. Sherlock is just drunk, his inhibitions lowered, he doesn't know what he's doing, it doesn't _mean _anything, it _couldn't_.

"The sexual motive forms a very large part of the reasons behind the commission of a crime, John," Sherlock replies smoothly, slipping out of his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. His shit buttons strain with the action, and John wonders, again, if Sherlock knows how indecently tight it is. Probably.

"How was the case?" John asks. "Who took you home? You didn't take a cab _alone_, did you? In this state? Sherlock?"

"Look at you," Sherlock rumbles. "Clucking like a mother hen," he sounds faintly amused, faintly exasperated. "Were you fretting about me when you were fucking the surgeon?" one eyebrow goes up, and John feels everything inside him tighten at Sherlock's choice of words, and he feels an uncomfortable pull at his gut when he notices the vague bitterness in his tone. _Why? This doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. I'm imagining it. Everything._

"I wasn't—well—" John shakes his head. Sherlock continues to look at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, his eyes almost icy.

"Of course I worry about you," John finishes, the sentence coming out a bit more intense than he meant it too. He clears his throat. "You have a penchant for acting like an utter idiot, and I wasn't there to prevent you."

"Your own fault," Sherlock points out. "You were with the woman with the frankly awful choice in perfume. I hope the foreplay was good, because I'm sure the sex wasn't."

"Okay_ how _do you know about the foreplay?" John asks, ignoring the fact that Sherlock has just assumed that he did not have good sex. The sex was brilliant.

Sherlock gives him a _oh please don't be stupid _look, which despite the fact that he is 'slightly inebriated' comes off perfectly. His eyes slide down his body again, pupils dilating."Have you had a look at yourself, Doctor?" his voice is slightly patronizing, and he's doing that thing again, where he moves too close and John cannot move. His reaches up a hand, and strokes a line down the side of John's neck. The contact leaves John's skin prickling and burning and cold all at once, and his cock grows excited once again. Sherlock will notice, bloody observant bastard, he always does, but now—John is frozen.

"Lipstick stains on your neck, red marks- bite—I believe the colloquial term is _hickey, _is it not?" his voice is soft and low, almost a purr, and the scent of expensive whisky fills John's nostrils. He feels whoozy, as if he could grow intoxicated at the alcohol in Sherlock's breath. "The girth and intensity of the colour makes it clear that she's been doing it for a while. Where did you do it—the sofa? Awful choice, just like your taste in women," then he steps back, but still close enough for John to feel uncomfortable and warm and horny, and to notice the way Sherlock's pale face has a hint of pink, "Pre ejaculate stains on your pants—you should have changed, John, that's filthy," Sherlock's eyes are below his waist, and John wants the earth to swallow him, because the heat in his gaze is enough to make him fully erect. But Sherlock says nothing, his gaze sweeping upwards to rest at his collar, "Your shirt is rumpled at the chest, but nowhere else, fisting her hands in the material then—kissing, ah yes—" and then his eyes are on John's lips, and Sherlock's hand reaches up so that his thumb can brush across the skin.

_What—this is—fucking-_

"Swollen, still. Lots of it, then. But the sex was quick, wasn't it? Quick but unsatisfactory." Silver meets blue as Sherlock looks at him, an arrogant smirk on his face. "My, my, John. The evening sounds like rather a waste. You should have come with me."

"Why do you think the sex was bad?" John juts his chin. "Bit presumptuous of you, isn't it?"

Then Sherlock leans in again, close, close, _close, _John can feel the heat radiating off his body, from the silk of his shirt, and the pale skin under it, and Sherlock's lips are at his ear again, and _oh god—_

"Because you were thinking of me."

And he's gone, walking out the door, leaving John cold and spluttering as he turns around, his cheeks so hot he's surprised he hasn't burst into flames.

"You—_what_? How can you—Sherlock—you arrogant clot—" he babbles incoherently, following him, but Sherlock is about to go into his room, and John grabs his wrist, turns him around, pinning it against the closed door. He is breathing hard, either because he is aroused or _pissed off _at this bastard's fucking _audacity_, he doesn't know. Sherlock's cheeks are flushed pink now, lips parted, looking at John with eyes that are almost black with pupil.

"Tell me how the _fuck _you can assume that," John bites out.

Sherlock's gaze travels downwards in a second before sweeping back up. "Is your growing erection a correct deduction?" he says, his voice betraying a slight tremor. "Or are you going to hide that as well, besides the fact that you're attracted to me?"

"I'm—_what_?" John steps back, releasing him, and he feels his stomach twist into knots. This is bad. So bad. This is not—_shit_. Suddenly the next week flashes before his eyes—Sherlock uncomfortable in his presence, John having to explain his every action, and eventually him moving out with boxes and suitcases because everything is too awkward now.

"You're drunk," John tells him, his own voice shaking. "You're drunk and you're saying ridiculous things. Go to bed and sleep it off, because if you say anymore right now you'll be mortified tomorrow morning."

"Oh god," Sherlock groans. "There you go again. I'm not drunk, and you _like _me. I've seen it. I'm always the smartest one in the room, John, _always, _I am the most observant man on the _planet. _So if I say that someone is attracted to me, they are bloody well attracted to me. My deductions are _not wrong_."

"Maybe they are!" John shouts suddenly, anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach, because this is too much. He feels humiliated and sad and miserable and so fucking _angry, _because this was supposed to be a secret, everything was so much less complicated that way. He would stay friends, he was _fine _with that, because he had wanted Sherlock, anyway he could have him—but now the nutter is _deducing _and now how the _fuck _will things be the same?

"No they're fucking _not," _Sherlock suddenly spits, venom in his voice. "You keep doing this—the vapid women and the meaningless sex, stop _lying _to yourself, John," he steps towards John, putting a hand on his hip and moving him around so he's pinned against the wall. For a man who is drunk, Sherlock is surprisingly strong. "What was tonight about? Since when have you brought a woman _here_? What did you want to do, spread her scent around the apartment so nothing smells like you and me anymore? So it's clogged with channel 5? Did she leave her underwear too, so you could remember that you fucked some senseless airhead into next week because you were trying to drive me out of your head?" His voice is sharp and bitter, and he is panting when he's finished, his hand gripping his waist so hard that he's going to leave bruises under the skin. His hair is a riot of messy curls, falling over his face, covering the eyes that are bright and cold and full of poison.

"Can you even hear yourself?" John asks, sounding a bit deranged. "You don't know what you're saying. You said so yourself. You're _married to your work. _Put me off the first day itself. Then you waltz here, drunk as fuck, and then like the fucking arse you are, you start _deducing me _and apparently you've realised that I want to shag you. Well, well done, you. You've done it again. You're still the smartest man in the room," he puts his hands on Sherlock's chest, can feel his flushed skin and the frantic thudding of his heart under his finger tips for a second before he pushes him away.

"John—"

"Don't." John says, holding up a finger. "Don't make this more humiliating than it already is. What are you trying to prove, hmm? What do you want me to say? Yes, I want to fuck you? Yes, I know that you're not interested? Congratulations, Sherlock, you're correct. Of course you are, when are you not? Now what? I expect you're fine with—"

But the rest of his sentence is swallowed by Sherlock kissing him

He is frozen into shock for the first one, two, three seconds before his lips part invariably under Sherlock's feverish mouth. His tongue is inside, plundering and exploring and absolutely _wrecking _him. _Fucking Hell. They're kissing. _Sherlock's hands are at his hips again, pushing him against the wall and pressing his body flush against his own so that there is no space between them, just heat and silk and cotton and the _pound-pound-pound _of their heartbeats. Sherlock's kiss is demanding and bruising, his teeth catch John's bottom lip and suck, hard, and John returns it in kind. It is animalistic and painful, wanton need and naked desire rushing through the blood in his veins as he feels the heat and wetness of Sherlock's mouth, for the first time, and it is so much more better than he could have ever fantasized. John feels Sherlock moving desperately against him, hands fisting in the cotton of his shirt, his arousal pressing between Sherlock's legs, grinding. He feels his teeth flash against his lips in a teasing bite, he hears Sherlock groan; a deep rumble in his throat that sound so _filthy _and makes John want to pull his pants off and fuck him against the very wall.

But this is wrong. This is so, so, wrong on so, so many levels. Sherlock is _drunk _and he has no idea what he's doing, and in the morning it will mean nothing at all. Maybe this is some sort of twisted experiment, and if this turns out to be some sordid accident that Sherlock did not mean to happen, it would be more than John could bear. So he moves his lips away and pushes Sherlock off as hard as he can.

Sherlock looks at him, dazed, his lips red and bruised like blood on snow against the pallor of his skin. His cheeks are heated, hair insane. _He _looks insane. Debauched and ravished and utterly delectable. And John wants him so much that it could tear him to pieces.

"Go to sleep," he says. "If you feel like that in the morning, let me know."

And he walks off without another word, back into his room, closing the door shut.

**oOoOo**


	2. Chapter 2

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**There will be one more chapter after this. :)**

* * *

:2:

Sherlock stands there, for a few seconds, his lips buzzing and his vision slightly blurry as he watches John walk away. He can still smell him in the air, the scent of John Watson clogged up his nose until it fills everything and he cannot imagine breathing in air that does _not _smell like him. John walks away, and Sherlock feels his body unconsciously moving towards the space in front of him, longing to fill in the John-shaped hole in the air, but he is gone.

The fogginess in his brain is making it difficult to think. He cannot deduce, he cannot think, cannot comprehend anything past the blaring red lights in his Mind Palace and the repeated message of _idiot idiot idiot idiot _on and on, on and on in his head...

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Alcohol, Sherlock thinks, will be the death of him.

But why is John angry? Where did he go wrong? John is attracted to him, he _knows, _he _deduced..._but why...why...

The question swirls in his mind like an angry swarm of bees, batting furiously against his brain, making his head hurt more than it does and reducing the alcohol-induced stupidity to a blank slate.

No more whiskey. It makes it difficult to think, and if Sherlock cannot think, what can he do...

What can he do? _Nothing._

He can only stand like an idiot and hurt his best friend, kiss him when he obviously doesn't want to be kissed, and then ruin everything, _everything_. He had it, he thinks, he had something good...finally..._finally_...and now he's gone and destroyed it.

God, how can a kiss rip everything he holds dear to shreds?

_Go to sleep. _John wants him to sleep. _How can he sleep? _How can he sleep when...when...when everything hurts and his head is aching and he thinks he's done something terrible. He reaches behind him, fingers touching the cool wood of the door, and he pushes it open.

His room is cold and empty. The bed is hardly ever slept in. The covers lie on top of it, untouched and pristine. Sherlock feels like a shard of broken glass is stuck in his breastbone, he can't fucking _breathe. _Unconsciously he lifts an arm and rubs it against his chest trying to dispel the phantom pain, but it stays. _Idiot_, he tells himself. _Stop it. _There was a time when he would not _feel _so much, there was a time when his brain was a machine, when _he _was a machine, and oh, it was _brilliant. _

Or was it?

No, Sherlock thinks. It was not. It was _horrible. _Because he didn't have John, and now he does, but for how long? _How long_?

He needs to go back...needs to apologise...he feels the nausea build up in his throat when he wonders if John will even _care_. No, wait...he really needs to puke. He runs outside to the bathroom near the door and heaves into the sink. The rancid taste of bile and alcohol fills his mouth and he rinses automatically, rinse, rinse, rinse, brushes his teeth, brush, brush. Then he slides against the door, down, until his back is against it and his legs are stretched out in front of him, the black of his trousers striking against the white tiles. He leans his head against the wood, and he doesn't know how long he sits there, he might have even dozed off. He waits, just waits, for his heart to stop beating quite so quickly and his head to stop hurting quite so much.

When he is up and outside the bathroom, Sherlock feels his feet moving towards the staircase, towards John, and then he stops.

_Should he...?_

What had John said? _'If you feel like that in the morning..." _Stupid John. Sherlock feels like that all the time, he wants John all the time. Every fucking moment.

The Work and John.

The only things that matter in his life, and The Work has no meaning without John. Oh, how can John be such an _idiot_? How can he think that, there is even a _second _when Sherlock does not want to hold John close and never, ever, let go?

He needs to tell him. _He needs to tell him_. If he doesn't tell him, then he will explode. John needs to know.

The door is closed, but it isn't locked. Odd. John always locks it. The soldier in him, perhaps. Always weary of danger. He opens it, slowly, aware that he is going to wake John up, and John sleeps with a revolver under his pillow. Always a risk waking him up in the middle of the night.

Is John having a nightmare?

"Sherlock?" his voice is soft and bleary with sleep, and the light coming from outside the door illuminates his face. Sherlock stares for a few seconds before making a small rumble of acknowledgement.

"I thought I told you to go to sleep," John says. He doesn't sound angry. Resigned, and a trifle...amused.

Good sign. Maybe? Sherlock doesn't know. God, he has no idea how to do this. John makes it so easy. This...feeling...thing.

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock says honestly, closing the door behind him. The light is gone now, and the room is dark. He can't see John's face, which is good. It makes this easier.

"Too bad," John grumbles. "_I'm _trying to sleep."

"Trying being the operative word," Sherlock says softly, his socked feet making muffled footfalls as he moves towards John's bed.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night. Go to bed. Or just go to your bedroom. We'll talk about it, I promise. But not now." He hears a thump as John flops back against his pillows. Sherlock is standing at the foot of the bed now, and he can't help but think how easy it would be, how _simple_, to just crawl into the bed and into John and bury his face in the crook of his neck and just _breathe._ He would smell so good, Sherlock thinks...like John, or...like the woman?...would he smell like her, still? Is the perfume still clinging to his skin like something vile, something that must be scraped off with his own tongue?

"You're awake, I'm awake, we can have a conversation," Sherlock says, logically.

"That's not how it works."

"John, please," his voice goes half an octave lower, desperation making it strained.

"Sherlock..."

"John, I...I needed to...I couldn't sleep, don't you _see_?" Sherlock finishes, finally sitting down on the bed, cross legged, his knees brushing against John's shins. "I couldn't...not like _this_." He is growing even less articulate with every word. The sentences seem to be choking him, nothing sounds _right._ He drags a hand through his hair, frustrated.

John gets up then, with a sigh. Sherlock can only make out a dim outline of his face, his ruffled hair, broad shoulders, legs drawn up. "I really don't think..."

"John, you know I don't sleep unless I have to. I cannot turn off my mind just because you have told me to. Do you not _understand, _or are you being deliberately obtuse?"

John makes an annoyed noise. "If you've just come here to—"

Sherlock does not let him finish his sentence, he closes the distance between them and kisses him. Hard. The darkness makes the aiming a bit off, but he finds John's lips soon enough and he presses his own to them. There is a little cut there, on his bottom lip, where Sherlock's teeth have left their mark. He slides his tongue across it, a silent apology.

John makes a small protesting noise, placing his palms on Sherlock's chest, a gesture which does nothing to impede his advance, because John is _touching _him, and _oh god_.

"Sherlock," John says weakly.

"No, please," Sherlock begs, moving forwards and putting his hands on John's shoulders and pushing him down against the bed. "I _need _to, don't you see, John—I can't—" Sherlock lowers his head with a groan, his mouth seeking out John's lips, which are warm and wet and doing very little to stop him. He moves down, down his chin, latching his lips around John's pulse, and he can feel the erratic _thrum thrum thrum _under the skin.

"She bit you here," Sherlock says coldly. "She's left her mark, hasn't she? You've taken a shower, but the lipstick isn't gone, not quite..." Sherlock sucks the skin, determined to remove all signs of someone else, of someone who has _touched _John like this, because no one is allowed to, only Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this isn't—" But then Sherlock's body is pressed warm on top of John's, and his arousal brushes against his own, and John's hips buck upwards with a moan. "_Sherlock_," he breathes.

"Let me do this," Sherlock whispers against his neck, nuzzling. "Please. I cannot bear this, John. Bloody hell, it's _too much_. I want to scrub you clean with my mouth until you can't remember how she feels. Just me. _Please._"

"Oh _god_," John curses, as Sherlock's teeth drag a slow line down his throat, his tongue flicking against his collarbone. Sherlock presses his nose against the skin, inhaling the scent of him, just to see if he can smell another woman. He can't. It's just John, _his _John, clean and warm and _his._ John's hand moves down his back, pressing him down against his erection. Sherlock lets out a little gasp as the friction shoots down his cock, electricity sparking in his groin.

"_John_," he moans brokenly, and his fingers push up the hem of John's t- shirt, fingers splaying against his skin, nails scrabbling and scratching, to _touch, touch, touch_. John arches his back, when his finger brushes against a nipple, so Sherlock lowers his head to slide his tongue around the nub. John gives another breathless moan.

"This is..._Sherlock! _Oh fuck—a bad idea—" John mumbles incoherently, but Sherlock takes no notice. This is certainly a very, very good idea—even in all his wildest, filthiest fantasies he could not imagined feeling like _this. _His body feels aflame, want lighting every pore, John Watson sprawled underneath him looking debauched and beautiful, cheeks rosy and hair dishevelled, like he had been _made _for Sherlock Holmes.

"I need to touch you," Sherlock rasps. "Please, John, oh god John, I need to touch you."

"Then touch me," John croaks. His fingers move to the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, movements messy and un-coordinated in his desperation. The shirt parts, a few buttons may have fallen to the ground, but how does it matter, how does anything matter when John is running his hand down Sherlock's torso, and his skin is warm, and _fuck_, John Watson's touch is even better than a drug...it is better, Sherlock thinks, than _anything._ He pulls John's t-shirt over his head, and John wrenches the shirt off him and throws it on the floor.

And Sherlock kisses him again, prising his mouth open and slipping his tongue inside to _taste_. Taste him because John is _delicious_, how could he have spent so long not kissing him like this, not feeling him, the slick and slide of their tongues against the other, the clash of teeth and hearing the noises that John Watson made when he was aroused?

"John," he whispers. "John, you are beautiful. God, you're so beautiful. I want you, I want you _so _much, I want you so much I can't _breathe_, John..."

"Shhh," John says, stroking his fingers down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock shivers. "God, I want you too, if you only knew, Jesus, the things I think of when I see you."

Sherlock smirks, sliding down the length of his body. "I have a whole room in my Mind Palace dedicated to this. Just _this_."

And he licks a line on his stomach, saliva gleaming against John's skin. "I want you in my mouth," Sherlock whispers, his breath hitching in spite of himself. _Say yes, please say yes._

"Fuck, Sherlock, oh _fuck_, _yes._" John agrees raggedly, and Sherlock pulls down his pyjamas and takes his cock in his mouth without so much as a _here I go. _He begins to suck, and John's hand curls in Sherlock's hair, tugging almost painfully, but Sherlock doesn't care, because John is whimpering and groaning and he sounds even _better _than he does in his dreams. He pushes himself deeper in Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock can feel him holding himself back, not wanting to go too deep and choke him, but doesn't John _know_? He'd do anything, god, he'd do anything to see John undone before him, to see those eyes flutter close as Sherlock pleasures him.

"Sherlock, _ah_, oh _motherfu—_Jesus, _Sherlock, _please—I can't—don't want to hurt—_ah." _

Sherlock could smile if he could, but he just swirls his tongue around John's cock, listening to John call his name out, scream it, more like, as he comes. The salty taste fills his mouth, the taste of _John Watson_, god...how many times has he imagined this? This very moment...

"Ah fuck, _Sherlock," _John spasms, once, twice, clutching on to Sherlock's hair as he rides his orgasm out.

Then he falls back against the bed, chest rising and falling, and Sherlock crawls up beside him, his own erection straining against the fabric of his trousers. But that could wait. Was John satisfied? Surely, John would know now...he had shown him...hadn't he?

"John," he says, once.

John's forearm is covering his eyes, legs still spread. "I didn't know you could suck cock like that," he says after a minute.

Sherlock laughs, a weight in his chest he didn't know existed lifting. He lays back against the pillow, lying as close as possible to John. "Now you know that I can," he replies.

John turns to him, then, shifting so he is facing him, He can make out his eyes, shining from the faint moonlight streaming through the window. "What about you? Let me—" his hand moves towards Sherlock's crotch, but Sherlock catches his wrist.

"John," he says warningly, and John lowers his hand, confusion clouding his face.

"You don't want—"

"Believe me, John, I _want _very much," Sherlock clarifies, his voice low. "But it can wait. I just needed to—" he makes a vague hand gesture. "Do that."

"I don't want to ruin this," John says softly. "That's why I didn't...it's so easy to ruin it, you know?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a while, he stares up at the ceiling, letting John's words curl around him.

"Do you want this?" he asks, finally. He wonders if John has fallen asleep.

"Yes," John replies promptly. "Didn't you _notice_?"

"Do you want _me?_" he insists. "Anyone can give you sex, John. I'm sure that woman made that clear. But when I say _this_, I mean _me."_

"I only want you," John says solemnly. "You deduced that right enough. Don't start doubting yourself now."

Sherlock bites his lip. He hopes John can't see. "Sometimes I'm wrong. Not often. Once or twice. I thought that I might have been...because it seems too good to be true. Why would you want _me_?"

"I think you _are _drunk," John mumbles. "You just admitted to being wrong. I should have recorded that."

"John," Sherlock huffs.

John chuckles. "Sherlock, I want you because you're you. Isn't that reason enough?"

"Because I'm _me_?" Sherlock asks, incredulously. "What sort of an answer is that? You should _hate _me because I'm me."

"You're an idiot. I would never, _ever _hate you. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Was she good?" Sherlock asks after a beat, voicing the question that's been twisting his guts ever since he saw the stain of lipstick on John's neck.

"Who?"

"The Chanel 5 girl. Was she any good?"

"No," John answers. "She was terrible. You were right, I _was _thinking of you."

"Small mercies," Sherlock mutters, and turns so his face is buried in the crook of John's neck. "I'm sorry."

"You're _sorry_? Sherlock, do you feel alright?"

"I'm not joking. I'm very serious. I said rude things, didn't I? I was just so angry..." his voice trails off, soft in its guilt.

"Well, you kissed me after that, so it's sort of alright."

"I'll do well to remember that kissing you will absolve me of any potential guilt."

"Git," John says fondly. "Go to sleep."

So he does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys, so sorry for the looooong wait. I hope this makes up for it! :) Also, there could be typos, just posted this asap for you guys! :)**

* * *

:3:

John wakes up, military prompt as usual, at seven. Everything is normal for a second, he stares at the ceiling and yawns, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, until he suddenly realises that he's not alone in his bed.

He stares for a few seconds, wondering what series of events had culminated in Sherlock ending up asleep next to him, until he suddenly remembers, and his chest tightens painfully.

Sherlock looks impossibly young when he is asleep. His eyes closed, dark lashes fanning against the crest of his cheekbones, bow-shaped lips parted as he breathes steadily. His face is half obscured by the pillow, his hair a mess an absolute mess, tumbling over the white cotton and his forehead. He is shirtless, his arm lightly curled around John's waist, his bare skin warm. John looks at his face almost hungrily, because to see Sherlock like this- oblivious to the world, asleep, his defences non-existent, so painfully, heart breakingly _young_, he wants to wrap his arms around him and never let go.

Arousal simmers lazily in the depths of his groin, but is nothing maddening- particularly when he realises he is still sticky and they are probably asleep on some very filthy sheets. He doesn't want to wake Sherlock up, he will need his sleep because—

Then John stops for a second.

Sherlock had been _drunk._

Shit. What had he done?

Guilt spreads in his stomach, fiery and merciless. What had he been _thinking_? Well, obviously he _hadn't _been thinking, because if John had been in control of his senses, he wouldn't have.._never..._not when Sherlock had been _drunk_, surely. Because he wanted him, god he wanted him, he had wanted him since that day at St Barts, and from what had happened last night, it seemed that Sherlock wanted him too, but if...if he _hadn't_, and it was some terrible lapse of judgment on Sherlock's part, because his inhibitions were lowered and he hadn't been thinking, and John just...John just _laid _there...

He slowly lifts Sherlock's arm off his waist, the absence of contact a most painful loss, and steps down from the bed. Sherlock grumbles and stirs, but he doesn't wake up, simply snuggling deeper into the pillow, his trouser clad legs stretching themselves. John allows himself another glace at him, lithe and beautiful and looking like he belonged to him, there, in his bed—and then he walked away to the bathroom.

Emotions fight a useless battle in his chest, warring against each other for supremacy, and John wants to turn it off, turn it all off, like Sherlock can manage so easily. Because he is already so far gone, fallen into a chasm of longing for Sherlock Holmes that will be impossible to get out of. And if Sherlock doesn't feel the same way, and said _no, _after John had been able too...he groaned in frustration.

He couldn't do much but brush his teeth and shave and then make tea. _How very British of you, _he can almost hear Sherlock say in his head. The thought makes him smile. To be honest, most things that have to do with Sherlock make him smile.

* * *

He is making tea when a warm, heavy weight slumps against his back. _Sherlock_. He simply collapses against him, sinewy arms sneaking around his waist and pulling him close. The gesture isn't something that you'd do to someone you'd only just shagged last night, and yet, John thinks; this is them, Sherlock-and-John, and it feels as though they've been doing this for _years. _It feels _right. _

And yet John can't stop the guilt.

"Good morning," Sherlock rumbles against him, pressing a soft kiss against his nape. Sherlock's weight is making a tad bit difficult to pour the milk, but John doesn't want him to leave.

"Morning," John says, and then he feels Sherlock still against him.

"What is it?" he asks, his hold loosening a little.

John swallows. "Nothing," he says.

Then Sherlock slowly disentangles himself from John, so that John can turn around and look at him. He's still wearing those trousers (which are quite filthy, but John doesn't think it's the right time to tell him to take those off. Then again every time is the perfect time to tell Sherlock to take his trousers off) and he's carelessly thrown his slinky blue dressing gown over it, sash undone, so in reality, the dressing gown isn't really doing anything to cover his modesty. It's hanging off one shoulder almost obscenely. John wants to push him against the dining table and snog him senselessly. But it's not the time. Sherlock is looking at him, eyes narrowed, frowning.

"Tell me," he insists.

John sighs, finding an empty bit of space on the table, (which isn't much) and somehow wedges two mugs between a dubious looking container of some dubious looking substance and a Petri dish.

"I..." he trails off, and the sentence doesn't leave his mouth. He curses himself. He should be able to tell him.

Sherlock makes an impatient, fretful noise and sits down on a chair. He presses his fingers against his temples.

_Hangover. Such a lightweight, _he thinks fondly.

"You should have drank some water last night. Wait, I'll get you an aspirin," John says, Sherlock's puffy eyes a reminder of the fact that he had been absolutely pissed last night. Sherlock grabs his wrist.

"No," he says resolutely. "Stay."

"But—"

"_No, _John," he repeats, and the tone of his voice is not to be argued with.

"Fine," John consents, and leans against the table, looking down at him.

"Something is bothering you," Sherlock states. "And I am trying to figure out why. You were fine last night, I fellated you in bed and you told me you enjoyed it, and you also said that you wanted...this..." he licked his lips uncertainly. "You said it. I remember. I _asked _you, just to avoid this awkward...whatever this is." He looked at his tea in annoyance, as if the tea was the cause of all his troubles.

"Sherlock..." John starts and Sherlock holds up a finger.

"Guilty. You're _guilty." _ Sherlock still doesn't meet his eye. "Why?" he asks, sounding miserable. John feels terrible.

"You were _drunk_," he insists. "And I...I let you..."

Sherlock shakes his head, and pulls John on to his lap. John doesn't think this is quite the right thing to do when John is trying not to snog Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn't seem to realise this.

"I can sit on a chair," John says.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snaps at him, and then he threads their fingers together. Pale skin stark against John's tan hands, and Sherlock stares at their interlaced hands for a while, and then lifts it to press his lips against it. "I don't understand," he mutters. "Why are you...I don't...I don't _understand_." And Sherlock hates not understanding, which, of course, is the problem in a nutshell.

"Sherlock," John says slowly. "You were drunk last night, you came home, and you...you kissed me and...I _liked _it, I've wanted it...I've wanted it ever since I met you—" Sherlock stills under him, his breathing paused for a second, but John ploughs on, unable to meet his gaze, because he needs to speak, he needs to get it out. "And when you kissed me, I thought; _I have this_, but you were...I didn't know if _you _knew what you were doing, and that just made me feel, it made me feel—"

"Bit not good," Sherlock finishes for him, running his palm down John's thigh, which is making it difficult to speak, but John nods and continues.

"Yeah. Bit not good. Look—"

"No," Sherlock shakes his head. "Listen to me. John. _John_," he repeats, so that John looks up, into those eyes that keep changing colour, into a face that John loves so very, very dearly, if only he could, if only—

Sherlock interrupts his thoughts by cupping John's face and angling it downwards so that he can kiss him. John sighs into his mouth, and Sherlock moves against him, lips soft and warm and beseeching. John kisses him back, fingers kneading the the thick curls at his nape, pushing him just a little harder against his mouth, and Sherlock obliges, lips parting and arms wrapping around his waist to hold him more securely. The dressing gown slips and is hanging down somewhere around his elbows. Sherlock's tongue licks slowly across John's bottom lip, and John moans against his mouth, making Sherlock smirk a little in response.

Then he pulls away, and John can't stop looking at him, gorgeous, hair messy, lips red, pupils dilated and so very, very _his. _He cannot let go of this, never, _never. _

Sherlock hands are under his jaw, cupping his neck, thumbs brushing against the crest of his cheekbones. "Don't do this," he pleads. "I want this so much. Don't...don't feel guilty, I have wanted you since _forever, _I feel like I've wanted you before I knew you, that I was just waiting for you to limp into my life and make everything not-so-boring and take my hand and just make my life _more. _Don't think that I wanted you because of _alcohol_, John, you are a clever man and I cannot stand if you act like such an idiot." He suddenly looked very cross, and John couldn't help but kiss the little frown between his brows.

"I think we were made for each other," John says, thinking of what his life would be if he had never met this madman, this crazy lunatic who kept eyeballs in the fridge and woke him up in the middle of the night to chase criminals and who had taken away his limp and his boredom and his loneliness, thought of how perfectly they fit together, like all the little details and tells of a murder mystery that came together and made something clever and beautiful. The analogy might be a little alarming to other people. Not for John.

"I _know _we were made for each other," Sherlock answers, brushing a kiss under his jaw.

And at that moment John wanted Sherlock, wanted him with a hunger that bordered on animalistic, wanted him in his mouth, in his hand, wanted all five senses to drown in Sherlock Holmes. And when Sherlock met his eyes, his pupils dilated again and his pulse went erratic and John knew that Sherlock wanted him just as much and this was going to be just _perfect._

"Bed?" Sherlock asks hoarsely, and it sounds like the filthiest thing John has ever heard in his life.

"We are absolutely going to bed," John replies, sounding surprisingly level headed.

"I think the sheets are filthy," Sherlock tells him.

"Are you mad? We're not going _upstairs,_" John informs him, horrified at the prospect of going the extra distance when he can just fling Sherlock against the door of his room and press his lips against his in three seconds flat.

Sherlock makes a _mmph! _sound of surprise as John smashes his mouth against Sherlock's, pinning him against the door with his hips. The dressing gown slips off his shoulders and John thinks _good riddance. _John kisses Sherlock thoroughly, branding the inside of his mouth with his tongue as Sherlock makes a rumbling noise of approval deep in his throat, fingers trying to wrench off John's t shirt but failing miserably because he is too distracted with John's mouth.

John smirks against his lips as Sherlock has done a few minutes ago, and Sherlock makes a helpless, frustrated noise, clearly annoyed with not being able to take John's clothes off. Then John runs his hand down his front and palms his erection over his clothes and Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head and he gives a gasp of "_John!" _and his hips lurch against John's hand.

They are still against the door, bodies flush against each other, John's lips making a slow trail down the column of Sherlock's pale throat, liking and sucking and biting. He feels his Adam's apple bob skittishly as he throws his head back against the door and groans, low and deep and filthy.

"Bed, bed, bed," he babbles. "You said bed. Take off your—" _gasp—"_John—I—clothes—off, pl—_oh fuck, John—"_

John obliges Sherlock's command, uttered through whimpers and moans as John works his cock through his trousers. Then he grabs Sherlock and throws him against the bed and before Sherlock can even utter a croak of "Oh, John—" he's on top of him and he's swallowed his sentence.

Sherlock immediately arches his back against John's chest, his erection probing insistently against John's boxer clad groin, and John groans in Sherlock's ear at the delicious friction.

"John—John—_please," _Sherlock rasps, and John places a soft kiss on his lips, wet and swollen and _delicious_ from John's kisses.

Sherlock tangles his hand in John's hair and kisses him back, hard, and then he whispers raggedly against his lips, "John, _hurry, _fuck me, suck me, I don't care, just do _something_," and John goes harder still (if that's even possible) at the pleading note in Sherlock's voice because _god damn._

So John moves down the length of Sherlock's lithe body, and Sherlock sucks in a gasp when John flicks a tongue against one rosy nipple, hips jolting and grinding against John's erection. He clearly likes it, and John licks some more, just to see Sherlock's cheeks grow flushed and his eyes go bright and for him to go absolutely senseless with pleasure. It's a beautiful sight- it's a beautiful _feeling_, Sherlock fingernails scrabbling at his back and his insistent rutting between John's legs, the moans and the whimpers—_oh god._

Then John moves down further, tongue licking a wet path down the middle of his chest and his stomach, as Sherlock shudders underneath him, until he is level with Sherlock's crotch, tenting obscenely against the fabric of his trousers. "_John," _Sherlock rasps, "_Please."_

And John obliges, because what else can he do when Sherlock sounds like that? He makes quick work of his trousers, zipping down and fumbling only a little bit in his excitement, then shoving his pants down his thighs and closing his lips around Sherlock's weeping erection.

Sherlock makes an incoherent noise somewhere between a shout and a groan, thrusting his hips into John's mouth, his thighs straining with the pressure of trying not to chaff John's throat raw. So John places his hands on his hips to steady him and sucks harder. Sherlock mewls, he actually _mewls, _a hand curling itself in John's hair and tugging, which might have been painful under any circumstance, but not now. Oh god, not now, when Sherlock is thrashing underneath him and moaning, sounding filthy and pornographic and so, so _good._

John swirls his tongue around his shaft, thinking _I'm doing this with a man, and it's never felt so right before, because this is-nngh-this is—oh _GOD—_because this is Sherlock—_fuck.

Sherlock comes fairly quickly, but John doesn't care, because he literally screams John's name, and it all sounds suspiciously like the crude, filthy fantasies he's constructed in his head, although, no—it sounds even better, because Sherlock is rocking against his mouth, the bitter, warm taste of ejaculate filling John's mouth and that makes it all so very, very _real. _Sherlock keeps whimpering, "_John, _John, _oh god, _fuck, John, _Jooooohn," _as he rides it out, and then he flops back against the pillows while John slips his mouth off his cock with an obscene _pop, _wiping it with the back of his hand.

Sherlock is spread-eagled underneath him, trousers and pants still tangled around his ankles, and as John moves up to lay down next to him, feeling extraordinarily light headed and _brilliant, _Sherlock says, between gasps of breath, "You didn't—take—your shirt off."

John giggles, and then Sherlock giggles in reply, and soon enough, both of them are laughing like giddy teenagers, and then Sherlock turns to him, cups his face with one hand and kisses the laughter right out of his mouth. Sherlock kisses him softly and thoroughly and then his fingers move to the waistband of John's boxers and pulls them down as far as he can manage while still kissing him, and then he wraps a hand around his erection and with single-minded focus, begins to stroke him slowly and leisurely.

John moans against his mouth, as Sherlock smiles, kissing him right underneath his jaw and whispering in his ear while his fingers move over his cock, "You are the most perfect human being on this planet, John Watson, and as long as you want me, I will not leave you. I will not make you stay, but as long as you are here, as long as you _want _to be here, I will never leave your side, never, never _ever._"

And John wants to reply to that, he really does, he wants to say, _You absolutely crazy, brilliant madman, I will never you, and if you don't make me stay if I am ever stupid enough to do that, I will punch you right across your pretty face. _But all he is capable of doing is groaning "_Sherlock," _low and deep and then coming all over Sherlock's slender fingers.

And then when both of them are on their backs on the bed, and John has caught his breath, he turns on his side to look at Sherlock and asks, "Why do you think I would ever leave?"

Sherlock turns over to look at him, grey blue eyes fathomless. "Because I am an impossibly difficult man to live with and any sane person would run in the opposite direction and keep running for a very long time," he replies, in a very matter-of-fact voice. But because John is John and not some other idiot, he knows that Sherlock sometimes says things like that when he is trying to hide how hurt he is.

"Oh, but haven't you heard?" John asks instead, placing a very soft kiss underneath his ear, making him shiver slightly in response. "Sane is _boring."_

"But sane won't get you killed," Sherlock says dully. "Sane will keep you safe and warm at home and give you two children and a dog and a white picket fence and give you a stable future."

"Sherlock, that sounds absolutely _horrifying_," John says urgently, because it _did_, the very prospect of it, the monotony, the boredom, absolutely _not. _How could he even think that he would ever, ever, want that over the madness that was Sherlock Holmes?

"Sane will give you routine. Sane will make sure you know what will happen next. Sane will give you _normal," _Sherlock continues, looking at John pleadingly, and John knew that gaze meant _I am trying to make you stay, but I am also telling you that you should leave, because I'm no good for you_, which in John's mind is such a foolish idea that he leans forward and kisses the miserable line of Sherlock's mouth.

"Stop it," he commands him. "Stop it _right now. _Listen to me, you big, arrogant clot. If I wanted normal, I would never have said yes to living with you. If I wanted to know what happens to me the next day, I would never have killed that cabbie for you. If I wanted white picket fences and safe and warm and if I wanted anything that wasn't you, in all your bright, crazy, madness, Sherlock, I would not be here, right now. I would be somewhere lonely and boring and terrible, and I would not be _with you. _Which frankly, I want to be for the rest of my life."

"For the rest of your life?" Sherlock asks uncertainly, and then John closes his big, big mouth.

"John," Sherlock insists, "Tell me. Tell me, please. Do you mean that? Do you really mean it?"

"I—"

"Because I would mean that, if I had said that before you, and the only reason I didn't is because I didn't want to scare you off, but really, John, if you, if you—"

"I mean it," John replies, as sincerely as he can, because really, what else would he do with the rest of his life? His place is here, at baker street, in Sherlock's arms and his bed and by his side while they chased down criminals and shot bad people.

"John Watson, your very _existence _is impossible."

"How so?" John asks, feeling a bit amused.

"Because you are so very, very perfect for me," Sherlock says, and kissed him.

"Good," John replies, and because his brain-to-mouth filter seems to be temporarily not operational, he adds, "Because I am so very, very much in love with you."

Sherlock stills, lips frozen, and then he pulls away a fraction. "What?" he asks.

"I—uh—" John licks his lips. _What was wrong with him? There. He'd done it. He'd so absolutely fucking done it. "_Oh, fuck," he moans.

"No," Sherlock tells him. "No, say it again."

"What?"

"What you just said, John, don't be obtuse."

"I—I said that I—"

"_Yes_?" Sherlock prompted him insistently.

"IsaidIwasinlovewithyou," John says in a rush.

"Oh," Sherlock replies, his lips a perfect 'O' of astonishment.

"I know it's fast, I know, I know, just ignore me, can we forget about it please, Sherlock," John babbles, and Sherlock looked at him with such an offended expression that he shut up.

"Are you _mad_?" he asks.

"I'm—what?"

"Why are you taking it back? Is this just a whim of yours? Tell Sherlock that you love him and then say _oh no, Sherlock, let's just forget about it_," Sherlock huffs crossly.

"I thought you didn't—"

"I love you so much it _hurts,_" Sherlock informs him, and John stills.

"Will you continue to stare at me, John, or will you kiss me?"

"I love you," John tells him, and then kisses him; with the firm knowledge that he would be kissing him for the rest of his life.

_**The End**_

_**: )**_


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